The Lines Between Us

by Rebecca D'Harlingue

  October 1642

  I will record here a short scene from my visit to the convent today, though I fear that my growing affection for Sor Ana prompts me to read much more into her words and manner than is meant.

  When I called at the convent today, I was met at the door by the servant who usually admits me, and she informed me that, thank Our Lord, there were no sisters in need of my ministrations today, for the infirmary had been cleared out. As she was closing the door, I heard Sor Ana’s voice: “Please, Juana, allow the good doctor to enter, as I have some particular questions to put to him about the care of our sisters. We will be in the infirmary, where some of us are taking this opportunity to give the room a very thorough cleaning.”

  It was odd to observe that all of the beds in the infirmary were now unoccupied, as I had never seen it so, and I asked Sor Ana how this had come to be.

  “None of our sisters suffers from any particular sickness at the moment, thanks be to God. As for those who are infirm and usually lie within, I have asked Madre Superior if they might remain in their own rooms, where I do believe they rest more comfortably in their familiar surroundings. Of course, someone visits them and sits with them several times a day, and two of the older sisters have even been able to be carried to the garden for a short period on a mild day.”

  My surprise must have been evident to Sor Ana, for she followed this with “I had thought that this would meet with your approval. I had understood your opinion to be that allowing the sisters a place of quiet, away from others’ complaints, might contribute at least to their ability to rest.”

  “Yes, that is so. Perhaps you should have consulted with me beforehand, however.”

  At seeing her downcast face, I instantly regretted my words. “Yet I think that it is certainly worth continuing this course for a while and seeing how the sisters fare. You said you had some questions for me?”

  “Yes, I did. I confess that I mostly wished to see your reaction to this new arrangement, and in truth, I did not wish to forgo the great contentment that your visits bring.”

  When I remained silent, not knowing how to answer, she hastily continued, “That is, my ailing sisters always greatly appreciate your attentions.”

  “Thank you, Sor Ana. I myself find my visits here most gratifying.”

  At this, she stood and murmured that she must take no more of my time. She did not suggest that we see any of the other sisters. Is it possible that Sor Ana finds my company as pleasing as I have come to find hers? Yet the impediments to anything further between us must be many.

  11

  ANA

  Ana awoke not completely rested, but with a sense of relief. She had made it to her bed, but the curtains were open and she could see that this time she had slept until morning. She glanced at the journal, now lying on the small table, next to the snuffed-out candle.

  Emilio’s words had taken her back to her early feelings for him, before they had been overlaid by the intervening years, then by his loss. She remembered the guilty attraction and the doubt. Perhaps it was true that her entrance into the convent had been but the best of limited possibilities. Nevertheless, she had begun her life there with the sincere desire to be worthy of her Lord and of her sisters. This man who had entered her protected world had disturbed her equanimity, but she had not been able to call these new emotions evil.

  Prior to the day that Emilio had chronicled, Ana had thought that he could never look at her as anything other than a pair of hands to help him in his work at the convent, but on that day she had made bold to try to let him know in some small way her growing tenderness for him. She remembered her confusion and embarrassment at the time, and for her former self wished that she had known that Emilio, too, hoped that within their encounter lay a deeper meaning.

  She let her thoughts linger on those memories until she heard loud voices, and Clara suddenly entered. “Doña Ana, come quickly! It is old Fernando. He is very upset, but none of us can make sense of what he is saying.”

  Ana put a robe over her nightclothes, quickly followed Clara, and found Fernando, Sebastián’s manservant, seated on a stool. He was quiet now, having exhausted what air was left to him after his walk from Sebastián’s home. When he saw Ana, he began again.

  “How to explain? Gone! No one saw . . . and then I looked for . . .”

  “Calm yourself, Fernando.” Ana took his hand. “Look at me and take slow, deep breaths. Compose yourself and begin again, please, very slowly. What has you so agitated, my friend? Who is gone, Fernando?”

  “Both, all, Don Sebastián, the señorita, and even my Silvia.” At this last he could contain himself no longer, and tears welled up in his eyes. Silvia and Fernando had served in the same house for over forty years, he manifestly loving her for all of them. Though Ana believed that he had once hoped for more, it seemed that he had long since learned to live on the sisterly regard that was all that Silvia was willing to offer him. Ana had often thought this hard of Silvia, but Silvia kept her own counsel in these things, and Sebastián’s household ever esteemed a circumspect woman.

  Clara shook her head. “Gone? Surely the ladies just went to Mass, and surely the master has no need to make an accounting to you of his whereabouts.” Ana looked reprovingly at Clara for her lack of sympathy at Fernando’s distress, and even in his present state, Fernando’s face made it clear that he did not have to accept condescension from another servant.

  “Please, explain yourself more clearly, Fernando,” Ana tried again. “What do you mean?”

  “They are not just gone out for the day, señora. There was chaos in the señorita’s room, as Silvia never would allow, and clothes were clearly missing.”

  “And my brother’s room, and Silvia’s?”

  “Don Sebastián’s room is orderly, as always, and I could not see that any clothes had been taken, but he also left before the household was up and about. Silvia’s room . . .” But here the old man could not continue but simply wept, as though recalling what he had seen but could not describe.

  “Well, I’m sure that there is some explanation, and that my brother will inform us of it when he returns, which will surely be today, since he at least has taken no change of attire, and we all know how fastidious he is about his appearance.” Ana was certain of this aspect of her response, but it was difficult to imagine why her niece and Silvia might have left so unexpectedly.

  Fernando clearly needed more reassurance than this, and Ana suggested, “Perhaps Juliana and Silvia decided to gather some old, unneeded clothing and wished to distribute it to the poor.”

  “But why so early, señora, and why so secretly?”

  When Ana arrived at her brother’s house, the young maid Constanza greeted her.

  “Buenos días, Doña Ana. Please come in. I am sorry, but no one is in today. Señorita Juliana is not here. I do not know when she left, but Don Sebastián left an hour ago.” Constanza had always seemed to Ana to possess a timid manner, but today she seemed particularly wary.

  “Sebastián left an hour ago? But Fernando informed me that your master had left early this morning, before the household arose.”

  “Oh, yes, señora, he had. But then he returned.”

  “And left again?”

  “Yes, Doña Ana.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No.”

  “Or where he had been?”

  “Of course not, señora.”

  “Has Señorita Juliana or Silvia returned?”

  “No, señora.”

  “Did . . . Constanza, I am losing patience. Please tell me if you know anything about what has been going on here.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, señora.”

  “Then please take me to my niece’s room.”

  Ana stopped abruptly at the doorway to Juliana’s room. Clothing and toilette articles lay scattered about, but not as though considered and rejected, as one would expect in the normal course of choosing items for a trip. Dresses lay rump
led on the floor, and a shoe’s mate might be found across the room. Even the jar of hand cream, which Juliana had received from Ana with obvious delight, was broken on the floor, its contents melding with the colors of the small carpet next to it, muting the bold hues, obscuring the rigid geometric pattern. Part of Ana’s mind judged that the carpet was now lovelier. She walked over and picked up a shard from the jar. “It is very thick to have shattered so. It is as though it were thrown, rather than simply dropped,” she murmured.

  Lying at the border of the spilled cream was a doll that Juliana had received several years earlier and cherished still. There was cream upon its face, as though it had been abruptly pushed from childhood to womanhood. Ana surveyed the room, the general disorder breaking down into its composing parts. The pile in the far corner from the door was books. Below the desk, papers had been scattered and ink from the well was still wet upon the desk. The doors of the two wardrobes were open, and most of the clothes had been removed.

  Constanza stood silently in the doorway.

  “What happened here?” Ana asked her.

  “Just as you see, señora.” It occurred to Ana that perhaps the girl was not obtuse but frightened, and this thought startled and worried her.

  “Are you afraid of something, Constanza?”

  “No.” Ana studied the downturned face and wondered whether there was meaning in the fact that the girl had not even asked, “Afraid of what?”

  Ridiculous! Ana thought in self-reproof. I simply feel unsettled at finding Juliana’s room in such disorder. What could the silly girl possibly be afraid of?

  To Constanza she said, “I understand that Silvia also left this morning.”

  “She seems to have done, señora.”

  “I will see her room also.”

  Constanza led Ana to a large, airy room close to Juliana’s bedroom. Silvia had always been exacting about her person and had emphasized to Juliana that there was never an excuse for not appearing neat and carefully groomed. This attitude must be reflected in one’s room as well, for how could order emerge from disorder?

  For this reason, something in Ana dreaded seeing confusion in Silvia’s room, but what she saw was even more unnerving. Silvia’s room had been emptied of all belongings, as though the occupant could no longer bear the clutter of even her own most prized possessions. No piece of clothing, no comb, no veil or needlework remained. Even the bedclothes had been removed and taken. Ana walked over to Silvia’s open chest and lifted the false bottom. Even the box, the location of which Silvia had once revealed to Ana, was gone. Ana did not know what the box had contained. Silvia had merely mentioned its existence, and Ana had not wished to probe into this one place that was Silvia’s own. Though she had been treated well and loved by her charges, Silvia had lived her life in her master’s house, with never a refuge outside his compass. She had only this box, containing whatever mementos she had treasured. Its absence left the room barren and forlorn.

  “Where are the other servants?” asked Ana.

  “The master told the others to go and visit their families or friends for a few days,” replied Constanza.

  “And he left you in charge of the household?” Ana asked, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice.

  “No, Doña Ana, but I have no family. Please do not tell the master that you found me here. I did not know where to go. The house seems frightening when it is empty, but less so than the streets.”

  “You have nowhere else to go?”

  “No, señora.” Now the girl could curb her tears no longer.

  Ana sighed and reminded herself of her duty to be kind. “Would you like to stay with me until my brother’s return?”

  “Oh, yes, Doña Ana, and I would work very hard for you.”

  I never noticed that you worked very hard for my brother, Ana thought, but she instructed the girl to gather her things while she went through and did what she could to close up the house. When they stepped into the street, Ana’s servant Manuel was waiting for her.

  “No doubt Clara sent you here,” observed Ana, and Manuel did not trouble himself to reply. The three walked back in silence, Ana finding a refuge from disturbing questions in her irritation with Clara.

  Upon arriving home, Ana gave Clara only a brief accounting, then declared that she was suffering a headache, would proceed immediately to her room, and was not to be disturbed. She tried to make sense of what she had seen at Sebastián’s home. Since he had told the servants to leave, it must simply be that he had taken Juliana and her dueña on a trip with him. But why leave so precipitously? She prayed for guidance and tried to calm her mind, as she had learned to do at the convent.

  Hours passed with Ana’s thoughts going round and round, but they found no likely resting place of explanation. As the day’s light grew dim, Ana sought her bed but could find no repose. In frustration, she roused herself before the room was cast into complete darkness and lit the candle to read by.

  12

  Emilio

  November 1642

  There is again a possibility that I might find passage as ship’s physician in a fleet to leave in early summer, but I do not feel the elation that I did a year ago. I would hate to leave Sor Ana. My visits to the convent are the highlight of my week, most eagerly anticipated. Yet it is probably for the best that I find a passage, for what can come of loving a nun? Perhaps it is sin even to think of it.

  December 1642

  I see a kind of hope. I spoke today to Sor Ana of my interest in travel. She listened quietly as we went about our work of preparing mixtures for the ailing sisters. After some minutes of my monologue, I said, “But forgive me, Sor Ana, for speaking of such things that are closed to you because of your sacred vows.”

  “Not at all,” she replied. “I find your discourse interesting, as always, Doctor Cardero, and the pleasures of travel would not be forbidden me if I someday decided to forsake my home here. I have not yet felt Our Lord call me to my final vows.”

  At hearing this news, I behaved like a silly boy and dropped the flask that I was holding, spilling its contents onto the tile floor. Sor Ana helped me clean it, after which we attended to our patients.

  January 1643

  I must give answer to those who have offered me the ship’s physician post. I have led them to believe that I intend to accept, but I find that I cannot leave without discovering whether there is a chance that Sor Ana would forsake the convent for me. Has my interpretation of our recent encounters been but wishful thinking on my part, or can it be possible that she might feel for me some small part of the growing love I have for her?

  If I were to go to America, once there I would not return for many years. If Ana could find it in her heart to accept me, I could not drag her to a new land so soon after tearing her from the womb of the convent she has known so many years. Yet perhaps she would not find it a hardship—indeed, I dare hope she might delight in accompanying me next year. If this is my wish, it is all the more reason not to wait any longer in my negative response to the ship’s captain. I do not wish to appear capricious to those of whom I would request that they postpone their offer for a year.

  At thirty-four years of age, I find it strange to contemplate marriage. As the years have passed and I have seen my brother and sister married, I had come to suppose that I could fill the part of favored uncle. I have known other intriguing women, but none with whom I have wished to share my life. I believe that my proposal, if handled delicately, will not be an insult to Ana. I am only six years her senior. From what I understand, we are of equally gentle birth. Although my financial circumstances are less exalted than those of her late father or her brother, a prestigious arbitrista, I can give to her a comfortable, an honorable, life, in which she will know love.

  February 1643

  I asked her today. I will record my proposal here, so that I shall never forget the particulars.

  “Sor Ana, may I speak to you on a personal matter?” I could hear the timid sound of my voice b
ut could do nothing to strengthen it, now that I was so close to discovering whether my hopes would be fulfilled or denied.

  “Of course, Doctor Cardero. I know that you will say nothing to offend. I am always happy to attend you.”

  “You have mentioned to me that you have not taken your final vows,” I said.

  “That is correct. Although some of my sisters who have been here much less time than I have taken that step, I have not felt a strong enough calling to do so.”

  “I hope that I do not transgress the boundaries of propriety in asking this, but I wonder whether you have ever considered abandoning the convent.”

  Ana looked into my eyes, paused a moment, then responded, “I have at times thought of this, but did not know what kind of life might await me outside these walls.”

  “Would you have any particular disinclination to the married life?”

  “Married life is sanctioned by God and Holy Mother Church. If a thoughtful and kindhearted man were to truly see me as a desirable wife, I believe that I could find great happiness in that state.”

  “Ana,” I finally dared to say, “I do see you as a wife with whom I could joyfully share my life—if you could deem me an acceptable husband. Indeed, I have come to hold you most dear.” I held my breath as Ana paused before responding. If I was not the kind of man that she could accept, I knew that I would never see her again, that I could not bear to see her, knowing that I would never take her into my embrace.

  “Doctor Cardero, I would be most honored to be your wife. I should blush to say it, but it is something that I have come to wish for most ardently.”

  Although I had dreamed of this response, I was not prepared for the elation that I felt to know that Ana would be mine. All other desires of my life seemed as nothing next to this.